Posts Tagged ‘i’d do just about anything to wear a cute outfit’

As per my 27 list, I’ve been at the yoga studio a lot more often recently, and thus feel compelled to share some of my observations. Especially when I start to notice the same types of people over and over.

1) The Stereotype

Before I started doing yoga, I attributed it as a practice best left to hippies and crunchy-granola types. Not in a bad way, but in a I’m-too-Type-A-to-meditate kind of way. I’ve since realized that everyone has their own way of practicing – even us Type A-ers – but it still makes me giggle (on the inside) when I hear someone behind me talking about how they camped out at a Bob Dylan concert and it was so wonderful and soulful.

2) The Competitor

Yoga is not a competition. In fact, every instructor I’ve ever had emphasizes that it’s a personal practice, and that you should focus on what your body can do, not what everyone around you can do. The Competitor hears that and thinks, you clearly don’t know me and how I operate. I can say this because I fall squarely into this category. Sure, I want to focus on my own practice, but if the girl next to me is trying a bind, you bet your ass I’m going to give it a shot.

That is, until I wobble and fall. A Weeble, I am not.

3) The Underdressed Yogi

I suppose that if you’re comfortable, then it doesn’t count as underdressed. But when I look up from my downward dog and I’m staring directly at butt cheek, it’s a little disconcerting. And I find myself wishing that the UY would wear spandex that’s just a teensy bit longer.

Also disconcerting? When that spandex rides up in the front and you’re standing directly across from the UY. But there’s one in every class.

4) The Dude

No generalizations about guys that do yoga. Just an observation that I see a lot more gentlemen in my classes now than I did five years ago. I’m impressed. And also jealous when they’re far more flexible than I am.

5) The Picture-Perfect Yogi

The Picture-Perfect Yogi isn’t defined by how well he or she does yoga, but by how prepared they look for the class. That is to say, I’m not passing judgment on their practice, by any means. But there’s always one who is decked out head-to-toe in the latest yoga clothing (likely from lululemon*), with a brand new mat, and a perfect slip-proof towel to match. If the PPY is new to yoga, at least they look the part. If they’re seasoned and adept at the poses, then you can bet there’s a Competitor close by, eyeing not only the binds, but also the clothes.

Damn that PPY.

My observations are clearly colored by the fact that I am undoubtedly a Competitor (even as I know that that’s not what yoga is all about). But help me out – who have I left off the list? Or, if you’ve never been, who do you imagine I’ve left off?

*Again, no judgment. Just another minor case of jealousy, since I want everything in the store.

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I have been on a running hiatus.

After becoming a Marathon Maniac, and riding the running wave through the end of the year, my body simply decided to stop. I became better acquainted with the elliptical, and kept the running to a minimum.

Which doesn’t exactly mesh well with my race goals from the 27 list.

Because to accomplish them, I actually have to register for races. And to be able to PR, I need to train for said races. And to train, I need to actually run with some regularity.

And at this point in time I really don’t feel like running on a regular basis if I’m not training for anything.

So it would seem we are at an impasse.

Or rather, that we were.

Because now…

In four and a half weeks I’ll be racing another half-marathon, gunning for a PR.

Husband and I signed up about a week ago, at the invitation/encouragement of Heather (who will be running as well).

I started training on Monday, and have so far completed a grand total of 1 run. Woo. Hoo.

That doesn’t leave a whole lot of time to get up to speed – especially if my training is limited to the treadmill.

And, let’s be honest, if the humidity keeps up, I’m not training outside.

But maybe – just maybe – this race will be the motivation I need to regularly slip back into my little running shorts and embrace my new, barely used (but very stylish) sneakers.

After all, isn’t the outfit what running’s all about?

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But life is full of surprises.

Yesterday, my closet revolted. Maybe it was angry from all the recent purging. Maybe it was offended by my fashion sense. It’s hard to tell.

I had opted for a black pencil skirt that morning. Classic choice, right? I pulled it on, fastened the hook and eye without issue, and proceeded to zip up.

But the zipper went on strike about three inches shy of the top of the skirt.

At first, I was optimistic. I’d hit snags before. I zipped down and up, trying to catch the snag unawares and break on through.

Then the nasty little thing threw me a curve ball. All of a sudden, the zipper wasn’t moving anywhere. It was camped out in no man’s land (where it remains today), still at that same three-inches-shy mark.

And so I was stuck. With very minimal wiggle room. And, naturally, I was running late. Because these sorts of things never happen when you have loads of time on your hands.

I made one last ditch effort to yank the zipper up and down, hoping to get at least another inch of space so that I could pull the skirt off. And the zipper responded by attacking me.

Talk about not fighting fair.

The way I figured, I had a few options:

  1. Safety pin the top three inches and go about my day.
  2. Wake up BNF and ask for his help in ripping the zipper down.
  3. Take the skirt off over my head.

Now you can see where the post title comes from.

I had tried sliding the skirt off the same way I put it on. But the combination of it being zipped most of the way up and my ample butt made that impossible. So over the head seemed the best course of action. Except for that little obstacle known as boobs.

I don’t want to admit how long it took me to get out of that skirt. Suffice it to say that it was a lot longer than it took to get in it. There was a lot of wriggling, a lot of grunting, probably a pulled muscle or two, and way more cursing than I’m usually prone to before 8am.

In the end? I really think the skirt won.

The zipper is still holding strong in no man’s land; it left my finger with a boo-boo; and the only “wounds” it has are some little white streaks.

I really hope it doesn’t inspire the rest of my closet.

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There are certain skills that many women (and I’m sure men, too) have, that I often feel as though I’m lacking.

It’s really the little things. Like:

  • wearing pantyhose without squirming
  • commuting in heels instead of keeping them under your desk at the office
  • ironing out all the wrinkles (not just the easy ones)
  • caring enough to blow dry your hair (maybe the caring isn’t a skill, but the blow drying is)
  • painting your own nails
  • putting on makeup (and taking it off)

And you see, it’s this last one that I’ve been having the most trouble with recently. I’ve pretty much given up on the rest of the list (I might blow dry if I’m feeling extra ambitious), but the makeup issue remains.

I’m not one to wear a lot of it. In fact, I’m not one to wear any, unless it’s a special occasion. And while most mothers seem to think that their daughters wear too much makeup, and so would be pleased at my minimalism, mine has been begging me wear more. (In a nice way, Mama, I know.) She’s been subtly and not-so-subtly hinting at it for years, but after this most recent wedding, when I had my makeup professionally done, it came up again.

I asked her what she thought about it, and took her silence to mean she didn’t like it. “No,” she told me, “I just wish you did it more often! It makes your eyes pop!

So, even though the wedding was weeks ago, I finally took her advice. It seems ridiculous to say, but at the ripe old age of 25, I’ve finally started wearing mascara and eye liner on a regular basis – as in every day this week.

This is groundbreaking stuff, I know.

And she’s right. My eyes do pop. I actually feel just a teensy bit more confident when I leave the apartment in the morning. It’s the same kind of confidence as when I manage to walk a block in my heels without tripping.

The thing is, now that I’ve got the makeup on, I can’t take it off! Apparently straight soap and water are no match for MAC, Maybelline, and Ulta. Who knew?

So I basically end up scrubbing, still waking up with raccoon eyes, and just reapplying on top of the leftovers. I realize this is not a good thing, but I can only grow up one step at a time.

Last time I was home, Mama did my makeup for me. Maybe this weekend, she can teach me how to take it off without ripping out my eyelashes.

Though, if any of you have any tricks or favorite removal products, I’ll gladly take your input.

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In the nine months that I’ve owned Andre (my bike), I’ve gone on just one long bike ride. And even that wasn’t very long – 12 miles or so, out to Gravelly Point (for a picnic) and back. I actually blame the marathon. Every free weekend I had was dedicated to racking up those running miles, and the last thing I wanted to do after running 20, was bike that same distance.

But this weekend we had the time.

I’d also never taken advantage of Beach Drive being closed on the weekend, so this past Saturday, even though it wasn’t particularly beautiful out, we planned to go for a nice 20-miler.

Now, I still don’t have bike-specific clothes, so I busted out my running spandex and old pair of sneakers, and vowed that I’d get a pair of those butt-padded shorts eventually. But that was really my main concern.

Turns out? It should have been the shoes.

The adventure started off fantastically, and it felt like the miles were flying by. I even practiced holding the curvy part of my handlebars (is there a technical term for that?) so I could feel like a real racer.

Photo courtesy of the boyfriend, who is clearly not afraid to ride and snap shots simultaneously

I didn’t. And I could have sworn I was much lower than it looks, but it still got my adrenaline pumping.

From Beach Drive we jumped onto Capital Crescent trail to make our way back toward Georgetown. It was smooth sailing, and Guillermo (and the boyfriend) kept me posted on just how fast we were going.

"Take the picture faster! Your tires are kicking dirt into my mouth!"

At one point, I noticed how the trail is just a little bit raised, so that there’s a bit of a dip to the dirt shoulder. And I thought, this is what scares me. I bet if I hit the side at this speed, I’d lose control.

Talk about foreshadowing.

I felt the tug first. It was the tug of my shoelace catching a little bit on my gears. Not a big deal, I thought, let me just slightly shift my foot…Well, *slightly* was all it took.

Before I knew what was happening my front tire had hit that little edge, my bike spun out from under me, and I was on my butt, all tangled up with Andre.

I was shaken, for sure. And the bruises that have shown up on the backs of my legs are slowly turning that lovely shade of purple.

They don't look so bad here, and they could have been MUCH worse, but they're still not fun.

But luckily, that’s all. I’m not broken, and neither is Andre. And the boyfriend was there to help me shake it off and encourage me to get back on the horse, so to speak.

I told him later, “This is exactly why I don’t want clip-in shoes! I would have been stuck!

Although, after this experience, I am strongly considering velcro.

*At least four different groups of cyclists stopped while we were on the side of the road to make sure everything was okay. Granted, cycling may be a little more dangerous, but I’ve never had any runners stop to make sure I was all right, including when I was going through my “run fast and vomit” phase.

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You all know how I feel about marathons. (I know, I know – 2 running posts in a week?! Bear with me.)

Basically, I’m hooked. And since I’ve started running them I’ve noted a few special ones that I want to check off my list – Boston, Chicago, Philly, to name a few. But I always figured that after last year, I’d cut back to just one marathon a year instead of two. That would be the sane thing to do, right?

Right. Until MJ suggested to me that we could turn 2011 into the Year of Marathon Maniacs.

I used to think that people who even considered this were crazy. Then I read some of the “how do you know if you’re a Maniac” questions:

  • Do your thoughts switch to the next scheduled race immediately after finishing a marathon?
  • Are you signed up for more than one race right now?
  • Do you know specifics about many of the marathons? Dates, courses, years run, etc.?
  • Do you know the story of how the marathon got started? Also why the course is 26.2 miles?

Guilty as charged.

The highest level of Maniac (titanium) has the following requirements:

  • 52 Marathons or more within 365 days. OR
  • 30 Marathons in 30 US states, Countries, or Canadian Provinces (any combination) within 365 days. OR
  • 20 Countries within 365 days.

We all know that’s just crazy, but take a look at the requirements for a bronze-level Maniac:

  • 2 Marathons within a 16 day time frame.OR
  • 3 Marathons within a 90 day time frame.

So MJ and I have signed up for the Chicago Marathon (October 9th), Marine Corps Marathon (October 30th), and just today the Philadelphia Marathon (November 20th). Count ’em out – that’s 3 within 90 days.

I told another marathoner friend about this Maniac goal and he wrote me back saying, “I went to the web site for maniac marathoner or what ever it was called. 3 in 90 seems “reasonable” those upper levels seem beyond. What does the membership give you other than serious bragging rights? Just curious.

It’s a good question. But really? It’s just the bragging rights. And a t-shirt.

But mostly the bragging rights.

Come July I’ll be starting my training for all three, and probably cursing myself and the DC heat. But I know that on November 20th, when I finish Philly and I have all three of those beautiful medals and know that I’ve pushed my body to the max, it will all be worth it.

And who knows, maybe I’ll even get a new PR in there somewhere. I now have three chances to break 4:56:29!

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1. Find out if everyone is going tanning before the big day. If they are and you don’t want to, just be prepared to look like a ghost.


With a couple other bridesmaids - you can tell I didn't get the pre-wedding tanning memo...

2. Always make sure there’s booze in the bridal suite as you’re getting ready. The bride will thank you. Profusely. (Even if some of that booze is Mike’s Hard Lemonade.)

3. If you are wearing a floor length gown, try to convince the bride to let you get it hemmed so you can walk. If you can’t, be prepared to do a fancy kick-step maneuver as you walk down the aisle. Nobody wants a bridesmaid to go splat. (Okay, that’s probably a lie.)

4. Bring a date who can handle being on his own, takes awesome photos as you participate in the festivities, and won’t judge you as you scarf down the appetizers at cocktail hour because you haven’t had a chance to eat since breakfast.

5. In the end it doesn’t really matter if everything goes exactly according to plan, as long as the bride (and groom) is happy.

Mazel tov!

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